


Kintsugi

by icylook, ltoadreamer



Series: The Flight of Us [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 15:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20312041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icylook/pseuds/icylook, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ltoadreamer/pseuds/ltoadreamer
Summary: People never seem to see anyone as broken until it's already shattered. Some things people believe can never be unbroken though can be mended, and sometimes, these mended broken things are all the more precious after the storm has passed. This is the painful shatter of two. And the mending after.





	1. Shattered Glass

Ultimately, it had been a lot of little things.

Like a fine glass being passed between too many hands in a crowded room, at one point or another, someone’s fingers would slip and all there would be was shards.

The relationship between the Inquisitor and the Warden Commander seemed to be nothing more than carnal desire, with smatherings of casual friendship in between. No one but the two of them knew their agreement, the acknowledgement of what their relationship began and ended with and what would never happen between them. All they were to each other were moments of reprieve that left them feeling safe, and sane, and satisfied, and breathless with laughter in the cold lingering heartbeats between so many cataclysmic events.

They were hope for each other, perhaps.

A sign that there might be someone out there that they could whisper their true selves to and be heard.

But there would be nothing further.

Anything beyond casual could not be considered.

Funny how the rumors were true. That the two of them had known each other and had been… whatever it was that they were… since before either of them had held fame or title. Back when the two of them were just lowly common elves, one a mage of the circle, the other a mage of the Dalish clans.

Years in the making.

And that this was also, perhaps, something years in the making.

Bound to happen sooner or later.

Destined to one day simply be shards.

Strange to look back on it all and to see all the signs that lead up to where they were now.

Perhaps Leliana would have noticed, would have seen the way their fingertips began to slip, but she was far away and had been for months, her position as Divine Victoria drawing her attention to more important matters than the two of them.

Perhaps she would have seen how the Warden Commander’s grip tightened on his goblet in the moments where nobles and visiting dignitaries would demand Inquisitor Aetherius’s attention during his own visits, as though they thought that their casual touches and wandering eyes as they made their generous offers and numerous invitations would go unseen.

Perhaps she would have recognized the way Aether’s hands trembled with each farther and fewer between letter from the Warden Commander in his desperate search for the Cure.

Perhaps she would have noticed Vergil’s expression, the morning Aether had come down from his room with wine on his breath all too soon after breakfast and the hand of his best friend, a Tevinter mage, resting on the small of his back.

Perhaps she would have been aware of the long, sleepless nights that the famed Herald of Andraste endured, lonely and aching for something more.

Perhaps…

Perhaps she could have made sense of all this.

But she wasn’t there.

And the fault was only their own this time.

“Don’t you have _any_ bit of self-preservation?!”

Vergil’s voice was like shards of ice, sharp and brittle and cold, needling into Aether’s skin as the shorter mage stared at him from across the table, his gut churning like the waves in the Bastion of the Pure and his mind still lost in the Wellspring Cavern where he had last seen Shaper Valta. He had gone on the expedition to find answers, but in the end he had lost too many fine people, had seen too many wonders, and had been left with more questions than anything else.

And here he was, once more under the security of Skyhold, with Warden Commander Vergil Surana of Ferelden, yelling at him, lecturing him about what a stupid thing he had done for the sake of his generous offer of wasting time, resources, and even putting his own health and safety at risk, all to fix Orzammar’s problem.

It was an issue of the Deep Roads.

Let it be Orzammar’s problem.

“You’ll ruin yourself and for what? For weak gratitude?” Vergil scoffed, fuming.

“I do it because it has the chance to make me happy,” Aether finally snapped. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that though, would you? You’d never do something without getting something in return.”

“Happy does not help me in achieving my goals.”

“So it’s all about power to you. Great. Then tell me why the hell are you here? What do you get out of all these visits?”

Vergil’s lips curled and he snarled, “what are you even getting on about? Is this a rhetorical question or should I make you a list?”

“Perhaps you should since you obviously think that I am fucking _stupid_, Vergil Surana.”

“Don’t put words into my mouth then.”

Aether shoved his chair back, his food long ignored, and threw his hands in the air.

He was tired and frustrated and this was going nowhere.

“You know what? You want me to be selfish? Fine. Here’s me being selfish. _Leave_,” he hissed, his body moving of its own accord as he stalked away from the table and out of the private dining room so he could retreat to his quarters.

He couldn’t handle this right now. He could barely feel himself function any more.

It was all he could do to pull the blankets right off his bed and drag them out to the balcony, where he could sit among his plants beneath the starlight.

As he curled up in the material, he could hear noise from Vergil’s room, just below his own, but ignored it all for the sake of keeping his own peace.

Vergil wanted him to be selfish.

This was him being selfish.

And in the early morning after, with bleary eyes, he watched Vergil take his horse and leave without a word.

It was better this way.

Now no one would have to watch him fall apart.

Now that all they were was shattered glass.


	2. Chapter 2

“Don’t you have _any_ bit of self-preservation?!”

His raised voice visibly startled Aether. He was a little surprised himself by it too, rarely having to shout to get his point in conversation. This time though, it just came out, unconsciously. Because of the man before him, who ventured into the Deep Roads to fix someone else’s problems and almost stayed there, forever. The fleeting thought made his skin crawl. But what’s worse, Aether was stubborn in his conviction about being right in the matter.

“You’ll ruin yourself and for what? For weak gratitude?” He scoffed, fuming. Inwardly, a thousands thoughts raced all around his mind. The darkness and dangers of the undergrounds, darkspawns lurking in every shadowed corner, the taint spreading so rapidly, eating away those who got infected, the nightmare of the agony before death and the possibility of the transformation into a ghoul… Of Aether withering away because of the ludicrous want of mending problems of anyone impudent enough to _ask._

“I do it because it has the chance to make me happy.” Aether’s snappish tone halted the erratic musings in Vergil’s head. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that though, would you? You’d never do something without getting something in return.”

The words felt like a slap. He almost laughed at how wrong and right Aether was at the moment. How he learnt to make an exceptions _for_, in his plans and actions, because he _knew_ it would please this one person. Just for the glimpse of an appreciative look on his face and lifted mood.

_All for naught_, it seemed. How pathethic he became, trying to change his ways and for _what_, a scraps of affection now and then, whenever they meet again.

“Happy does not help me in achieving my goals.” He forced himself to stay calm once again, swallowing the want to say something else entirely.

“So it’s all about power to you. Great. Then tell me, why the hell are you here? What do you get out of all these visits?”

_This is how he sees me after all this time?_ The disbelief made him pause momentarily, the ugly, sharp feeling spreading from his chest. _And what else should you expect, straying form the path for few stolen moments?_

He felt oddly betrayed. 

Vergil schooled his face into a blank mask he often used when talking with strangers. If he had to protect the remains of his dignity, be it. He won’t stay where he’s not welcomed.

And it seemed he wasn’t. 

Later, he stormed into his room with cold fury, the want to unleash his anger simmering just under his skin, the chill in the air becoming more and more prominent. He caught himself though, when the slip in control started to freeze the floor under his feet, frost expanding visibly in circles. Vergil cursed silently and sat down, crossing his legs, begrudgingly starting his breathing exercises. 

This won’t do. 

He couldn’t let himself lose the discipline like that. To let some strong emotions guide him and mud his will, leaving him open and ready to be picked apart.

Weak. Vulnerable. _Alone._

He spent the rest of the evening methodically packing his belongings, coming out to eat dinner with Josephine, notifying her of his departure at dawn next day. She didn’t ask about the abruptness of his depart, knowing that he won’t tell a thing, if he didn’t wish to. She didn’t need to, as she heard enough earlier.

Vergil caught an hour of sleep, napping on the couch. The sheets smelled too much like them, reminding him of the person he slept with not so long ago. But it felt like a year and it took much (_too much,_ the voice in his mind snarled with distaste) not to use the stairs and knock on the door of the room above his.

The power of wounded pride. 

He scoffed quietly, staring into the night through the open windows. He didn’t hear a sound from Aether’s chambers and he chastised himself for even looking out for it.

_Focus. You need to come back on the search and proritize more precisely. Do not stray this time, because you won’t have **any** time left._

He let himself foolishly think that maybe he _had _something he could come back to and feel- 

To have something _more_ beyond the neverending climb up, _up_, duty and responsibilities. To simply breathe sometimes and share his thoughts, desires and plans.

The last clash showed him clearly the nastiness of reality and where he can bury his _wants_.

He curled on his side, letting out the heavy sigh and wishing the crushing feeling of disappointment to just go away.

That would be a lesson to draw the right conclusions. And learn from the mistakes, to not repeat them.

He hadn’t have the time for more mistakes.

_“Leave.”_

And when the first morning light came, he was on the path away from the castle. Vergil didn’t spare a glance at the sight behind him.

_“Leave.”_

So he left.

* * *

His patience was thinning. With the reports from Avernus _(close but still not at the closure of the experiments, keep looking, Commander)_, the official Grey Warden’s inquiry to the Inquisition about the expedition to the Deep Roads and equally official answer _(or lack of it)_. 

The arrangements for two underground travels of his own Wardens, one he had to go himself _(he preferred to handle the Architect in person)_ and came back none the wiser, except few matters straightened out. 

The case of the Warden under his command, who’s taint came visible and caused concern _(she was a young human and only seven years after the joining)_, but not panic, as they knew that their time was limited. His Wardens trusted his leadership, and the years of his hard work and dedication to build the respect and a solid stronghold seemed to pay back. 

But still, there were hundreds of small matters - nobles, Amaranthine still rebuilding, visits to the king’s castle, the long and tiring _(mentally and physically)_ travel to Weisshaupt, just to talk about the mess the Orlesian Wardens left by their uprising and how to proceed with the situation.

Days became weeks, weeks months and months flew by unnoticed.

His patience thinned, his calm was slipping, the control harder to maintain. He pushed forward, though, counting on his his closest companions to match his pace _(and they did)_, to give, serve, search, hold, think, fight.

He needed potions to help him with sleep these days, as too many things wanted to catch his attention and he knew that he’d be useless without proper rest. That was what the logical part of his mind was telling him, as the other part was hungry for more, for constant run for knowledge and slightly desperate for winning the race with time. Whenever his body demanded to release the bottled up stress, Vergil either trained twice as hard, be it his magic or weapon skills, until he felt ready to collapse. Or easily picked an eager somebody to spend a night with _(and squash the dregs of the sentiment, of what if, how is he now, still a bitter, nagging residue in his thoughts),_ tiring himself to shut eyes and forget for a moment.

One of Morrigan’s rare letters came and he was off to meet her at some hidden location. He didn’t blame her for the secrecy. They exchanged information and talked like old friends could. She expressed her concern at Vergil’s visible fatigue and life choices in few scorching words, gifting him with some of her better potions, a private jab from the Blight times. He wouldn’t let her have a last word and commented about her change in priorities thanks to the family she had. He hadn’t expected the slight softening of her features and the fondness of her melodic voice, when she said _“Caring about someone beside myself is strangely satisfying. It was foolish not to let myself taste it earlier. The fear of loss too strong to take the risk, blinding with hesitation. Isn’t it, my friend?”_

He dismissed the words then, but they echoed in his mind now and then, making his travel back to the Keep oddly melancholic.

Vergil hardly stepped into his office and was informed by Nathaniel about the crow waiting for him, with the letter bearing the private sign of one of Inquisition’s members.

The chill stopped him for a moment, the slick dread of the first thought of _“Something happened to Aether and they were kind enough to inform about it.” _When Vergil composed himself _(enough to stave off the weird anxiety coiling within)_, he proceeded to get the piece of paper in his own hands. 

Ambassador Josephine was stating her concern about Aether’s well-being, or actual lack of it and his health taking a plummet down in the past months. She noted that the inner circle tried every method available to improve his condition, but without results. And it seemed to worsen day by day, thus they ask him for help in solving the situation. As a friend they seemed to be in the past.

He glanced at the date. Written a week ago. He unwittingly counted the days the travel would take and- 

Vergil cut off that thought. 

_Him, a savior?_ He scoffed, tossing the paper on the desk. The sour taste of the last encounter with Ae- _the Inquisitor_, still making him strangely uncomfortable. _Why should he care?_ He thought, getting pieces of his armour off, with more force than necessary. _Let him do what he wants and crumble, if he wishes to save everyone._ He left the clothes carelessly scattered on the floor, the steps to his private chambers visible in every piece. He was in need of a long bath. _The time for the distractions ended. How **dare** they presume he would leave everything without thought just because-_

* * *

Two days later the crow was leading the lone traveler, on the fastest path to the Skyhold.


	3. Washed Raw

“You told them.”

Cole lifted his head but did not meet Aether’s gaze, and his legs swung lightly from the edge of the war table.

There were already eyes on him, but his eyes were only on him.

Wine made it less but kohl still ran. Face washed and dried, like worn hands after the battlefield. Dried and washed until raw, to stop the smell of red. He still can smell the hurt of the first one he couldn’t save, but this time it’s the hurt under his own stars and scars that he tries to wash away. He wants white not red, but he tells himself he’ll never drink white again. He always drank white with him.

Aether’s hands trembled at his sides, and his voice cracked.

“You _told_ them.”

“_You_ should have told us,” Dorian spoke up, his voice gentle but hurt.

Maker, why didn’t he just tell me? I could have… I don’t know. _Something_.

His face crinkled, the way his brother would always make fun of him, laughingly, lovingly. Straighten up, little brother. Stiffen up that upper-lip. What you crying about? And he stands a little taller, obedient but defiant. And he calls his Nexus a butt. But he smiles just the same.

He doesn’t smile this time.

He’s thinner than he ever had been.

“You wouldn’t let me help,” Cole tells him, “but they still can.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

But he’s not fine. Not really.

He hurts.

And the wine can’t help anymore.

It never really did in the first place.

It just made it easier to hide the hurt.

They call him out on it.

They noticed but they didn’t think it was this bad.

Now that they know, they can help him.

It hurts to know that they know. He didn’t want to bother them. They all have their own lives to live, their own freedoms to chase. He’d just hold them back, like a leash on birds that need to be free. But what about the red bird? He’d much rather that they didn’t. But they’d much rather that he did.

And when he finally sits, face red and wet like washed black cherries he craved, cheeks and teeth and heart and stomach aching, Cole squeezes his hand and Aether squeezes back. Hurt but grateful. The others will take care of him. They’ll make sure he gets better.

He wants a glass of wine, to numb the pain.

White.

But he only wanted to drink it with him.

* * *

Cole told on him a lot after the intervention.

Probably more than he knew, and it was probably a good thing.

Aether could no longer trust himself to take proper care of himself any more.

He knew the science behind it, the spiral staircase that he had started to descend for the sake of making up the appearance that he was wholly in control of himself, and it still caught him by surprise how he still reacted like one of his own resentful patients when he was no longer allowed to ruin himself.

They took away the wine.

And his private apothecary table.

Precautious measures, he knew, but it still felt like punishment.

But without the wine to numb the ache, he finally could feel the brunt of his own pain, and it _hurt_, and he couldn’t always control how the agony in his chest showed itself to the world.

Creators only knew what the poor servant Josephine now had waking him up every morning thought of him. The poor girl didn’t deserve his temper, not when she was just doing her job. She brought him breakfast every morning, and she’d make sure that he ate every bite instead of just picking it apart. The first hour of his day was spent trying to swallow while that young woman busied herself about his room, tidying things that didn’t need tidying and talking to fill the silence.

Some days, she managed to get him engaged in mild conversation.

But most days, it was all he could to just make it through his conscious hours, one hour at a time, dictated by Josephine and the strict agenda she now mandated as an effort to keep him from spiraling out of control.

It had been a bad day for the last four days and he was so exhausted.

He was so tired and now they all knew that it wasn’t something that could be touched by a night’s ration of sleeping draught anymore.

Some of them, he knew, felt personally responsible, like Cassandra. And Dorian.

Others knew that it was just the way Aether was.

He wanted to take care of other people’s problems so much that he’d ignore his own, bottle them up and push them down until the pressure got to be too much, and then it would all go off like champagne.

He felt listless and bored, antsy from having so many responsibilities snatched away from him. Some things were still the same, Josephine giving him letters to respond to as well as more detailed information so he could make an informed decision, making sure he made it to meals, and other such things of course, but the visiting dignitaries were farer and fewer than they ever had been.

Josephine’s doing, no doubt.

She was doing so much for him and it bothered him that he couldn’t take some of it off her hands again.

She wouldn’t let him.

He needed to rest, and relax, and get well again.

A month was evidently not long enough for him to take back the bulk of his duties.

It had barely been long enough to put on just a _fraction_ of the weight he had lost, and his appetite was still nonexistent.

He just didn’t feel hungry.

He hadn’t for a long time.

Now, he had to eat because he had to, and the cook would glower at him if his plate came back with anything more than scrapes of sauce left on it, even if it made him feel sick to his stomach.

He could have fought back about it, say the truth that eating so much actually _did_ feel sick to his stomach, but what would be the look on the cook’s face if he said that?

So he ate it all even if he was miserable.

The only shallow comforts he had any more was when people didn’t walk on eggshells around him. That and the garden.

It had grown so much since they first came to Skyhold.

Luxurious and beautiful.

It was his pride.

His pride was in the earth that he turned with his bare hands, warm and healing and everything he needed. Lush and green and full of colors and smells and sunlight.

For now though, he knelt in the soft grass in front of the small statue that had been carved just for him, a gift from one of the Dalish clans that he had given one of his books to, written from his travels and questions to the Well of Sorrows that answered so many mysteries.

It was a statue of Mythal, standing as tall as he was, carved from the remains of a tree struck by lightning.

Some pilgrims called it blasphemy to have it, but it was a reminder to them that their Inquisitor was Dalish, an elf and proud of where he came from. The Andrastians had their own place of worship in Skyhold, so why couldn’t he?

Here was where his little bit of peace came from, sky above and the earth beneath his feet.

A little bit of comfort so far away from the clan that had adopted him as their own when he found no comfort in being alone any more.

And the clan that brought him into the world, equally distant from him.

He missed Nevarra too.

He missed the orchards that would lay thick with black cherries that his clan would harvest for the season, paid so they could prepare for the winter.

He missed the sweet smell of the grasses that grew.

And the rich colors the autumn festivals were famous for.

Colors like the ones Vergil liked to see him wear.

The thought came so suddenly that it almost made him choke.

Vergil.

This happened every so often, a random thought would somehow manage to tie itself to a memory of the Hero, Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, an elven mage of the Chantry’s broken Circle, and a man who was once his friend.

And his almost-lover.

If they ever could have been considered that.

He had been the closest Aether had ever allowed himself to be to love, for so many years. The closest but they never could be _that_.

Vergil would have never allowed it.

And Aether himself had made sure it would never happen by the accusations he thoughtlessly made, too exhausted and frustrated and pinched with wanting the world off of his back for just a _moment_ over his decisions that he had thrown it all in the face of someone who actually cared and…

And now he was gone.

Six months absent now.

Living his life well enough without him.

Vergil had always been accomplished, always strived to do more, to know more, to _be_ more than what society demanded he be for both an elf and a mage, and he was. He was so much more than anyone could have ever imagined he would have been. He had _made_ this place for himself for the world.

And Aether felt like he had cheated.

Herald of Andraste, claimed so entirely by the fluke of being where he should not have been but at the right time. Divine Justinia had saved him in the Fade from the Fear demon’s minions at the sacrifice of her own life, but at what cost? An elf with no real formal education on being a leader, only a healer, was suddenly forced to lead so many people, to be a figure of light and hope, to close a massive rift in the sky with demons pouring out and to stop one of the ancient magisters who was claimed to be at fault for the existence of darkspawn entirely.

Aether didn’t deserve the position of Inquisitor, unlike Vergil who deserved every bit of what he had fought to become, unlike Ameridan who had been a famed dragon hunter and demon slayer long before the Emperor asked him to take up the position.

What had Aether been doing all those years before he was forced to take up the mantle of Inquisitor?

He had been just a humble healer who had been running away from the thought of being taught by his own neglectful stepfather, to be groomed to take over the position of leading the clan once he himself became Keeper.

He had been running away from the thought of being a leader for so much longer than he had ever realized.

And now it was obvious why.

He just couldn’t handle the responsibility without it eating away at his very soul.

Ameridan had been right.

He should have taken moments of happiness where he found them, because the world would inevitably find ways to take the rest.

And now all that he had was the shallow comfort that he had planted and grown himself in that little garden in the place where the sky was held.

But even he could not stay there all day.

Not when he was gently disturbed by someone clearing their throat to get his attention.

Mournfully, he took a breath and then opened his eyes to look up.

It was one of the kitchen scullery maids, an elvish woman the same age as Suledin but without the same spitfire.

“My lord, the cook wants to know your thoughts on something,” she said meekly.

He wondered if she wanted him to come look at the list of things she could make again. She was always making adjustments to that, but as he moved to rise to his feet, Aether paused when the maid offered him something, wrapped in a handkerchief.

Relaxing his posture, he sat back on the ground and slowly unwrapped the fabric from the item, and curiously, he tilted his head as he looked down at it.

A… brownie?

He remembered them from the Orlesian parties he had been made to attend. Josephine seemed to enjoy them quite a bit, although Leliana was more partial to the frilly cakes, and in his confusion, he looked back up to the maid.

“Will you try it and tell me what you think so I can let the cook know?” she gently asked.

Oh.

Hesitantly, he looked back down at the pastry and a breath huffed in his chest.

He didn’t feel hungry, but then again, he never really did any more.

It wasn’t a large piece though, so taking just one bite couldn’t hurt any.

The brownie crumbled slightly under his light grip, pieces of it flecking the dark colored square of cloth and he tucked his chin as he took a small nibble from the corner, curious at first.

It tasted like chocolate, rich and sweet, but not overpowering. But there was something else that he tasted as well, and with a more intense interest, he took a bigger bite.

The first chew was all it took to cause flavor to pop into existence and race over his tongue, so familiar and comforting that nostalgia swept over him in small waves, eyes closing as he remembered a time and place that felt so long ago.

Small bites became larger, mingling the taste of Orlesian chocolate and black cherries of northern Nevarra filled his mouth, and he recalled the laughter of his brother the last day of the harvest, and the thankful smile of the brothel owner as she slipped one last thank you gift into his pack before he fled across the Frostback mountains to escape the Templars that had been drawing increasingly too close for comfort.

A child of the Alerion clan, a fussy archer.

The Cardinal of Orlais, a humble healer.

That was who he had been before he had ever really known what sort of chaos the world could face.

Before then, his world had been without threat of Darkspawn or Archdemons or Ancient Magisters or Fade Rifts or Deep Roads or Titans or Avvar gods or so many other things that made him want to curl in on himself with fear.

Aether had not realized he had devoured the entire brownie until he found that there was none left and he heard the soft voice call his attention.

“Sir?”

He sniffed as he looked up, eyes glassy with nostalgia and he smiled at the scullery maid, and he asked something he had not wanted to ask for a long time.

“Can I have another?”

* * *

Aether knew that the brownies were a turning point in his progress, quickly becoming a nightly reward taken with his requisition of sleeping draught on his good days and a comfort food that he would steal from the kitchen on days that were not. The fact that he was now willing to eat _something_ was at least a sign of change to the Inquisition.

But three weeks showed limited results, and the bad days continued to severely outnumber the good.

Josephine’s latest visiting dignitary was not improving his progress either as he hid out on the balcony above the main hall, a plate of roasted cherry brownies at his side that he slowly chewed, soaking in the sun and staving off his headache from the noble and his awful wife.

The man was Orlesian, obnoxious and loud and liked to drink so much.

And the noble’s shrew of a wife!

The woman complained about everything, and even had the audacity to demand that the statue of Mythal be taken out of the garden during their visit.

The gall!

Josephine was almost pleased when Aether made a point to have more Dalish hangings put up, just to prove his point that Skyhold was _his_ home, not theirs, and he refused to be shamed for his culture. Thankfully, it would not be too many days before they left.

It could not come fast enough.

Stretching out on his back on the cool stone, he blindly reached for another brownie and frowned when he felt the empty plate.

So he had eaten the last one already.

And the Inquisitor sighed, rolling onto his side and peering between the railings of the balcony.

Beyond them, the rest of his domain spread out, peaceful and calm providing one politely ignored the dog that Aether hoped someone would stick in a barrel and forget about, awful as that thought was in the afterthought, but temporarily pleasing none the less.

And then he saw one of the guards hurry through the front gate of the fortress.

The guard was followed after by an all too familiar figure in all too familiar armor.

And Aether’s heart rose into his throat.

It couldn’t be.

But no, after twelve years of familiarity, there was no mistaking it for anyone else.

That was Vergil.

But what was he doing here?

Why?

He never came without one of them writing to the oth-

Oh.

_Oh_.

Aether couldn’t bolt down from the balcony fast enough to storm into Josephine’s office, throwing open the door with such force that it bounced off the wall behind it and nearly hit him in the rebound, startling the Ambassador from her paperwork.

“You _wrote_ _him_?!” Aether demanded, his voice cracking slightly in his panic.

It took a moment for Josephine to gather her thoughts and with only a few words, expressing that they had all agreed that getting in touch with the Warden-Commander was the next best course of action that they could take. He was, after all, Aether’s long time friend.

The anxiety in Aether’s chest only rose and he shook his head.

No.

Contacting Vergil was not the next best course of action.

Aether had been the one to fuck up.

_Aether_ had been the one to accuse and insult the man.

_He_ should have been the one to write a letter to the Hero of Ferelden, to send a note of apology, to own up to his mistakes and admit that he had been in the wrong and that Vergil had been right and it should have been _him_, not _her_, to write to him.

Creators only knew how many drafts he had attempted to create before he had just thrown them into the fire.

He couldn’t face Vergil.

Not right now.

But it seemed that was not his choice when he threw the office door back open in the effort to flee into the basement, to hide in the forgotten library, only to come face to face with the chilling familiar stare of amber brown eyes, worn armor baring the marks and scents of a recent fight.

And Vergil’s cool expression only informed Aether of one thing.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Not before they talked.

Well shit.


	4. Chapter 4

The bodies of his attackers were mocking him. The one on his left twitched weakly, so he summoned the sharp gland of ice, finishing it off with a sneer. 

He contemplated leaving them here and carry on. 

Three mauled humans should make an example for any other trying to ambush a lone traveler. 

He grimaced. If not for the crow leading him through the path in one moment, and suddenly hurtling itself at Vergil with a loud screech, the Warden would be the one on the ground, bleeding out from the arrow in his throat. The bird saved his life, when he was too deep in his thoughts to pay attention to the surroundings. 

He almost twisted his ankle trying to hop off quickly from the horse’s back, hurriedly casting shields. Thankfully, the animal lived through the scuffle, too valuable for the bandits to simply kill it. 

There were three of them and the closely growing trees were their advantage in the surprise attack. But once the surprise part was over, Vergil striked them as hard as his rage fueled him. He was in a hurry and they _dared_ to slow him down. 

Lightning and ice cracked in the air, and when the crow unexpectedly dived for one of the bandits, slashing her face with its claws, Vergil saw his opening and lunged for it. The blood of the wounded one was the source of the fall for the rest. He didn’t even need to draw his daggers. 

The inhuman screams faded quickly enough and now he was left with the remains. 

He blinked slowly, trying to recall the spell Aether taught him long time ago. The one with the earth elements, using nature as its base. The one which, when Vergil once used in some other fight, had Velanna shouting in outrage. She was less than impressed about someone spilling Dalish secrets, but later, after a lot of grumbling and some small bribing, helped him with understanding it’s mechanics better. 

_For proper use_, she said.

And it should come of use now, as Vergil concentrated more than usually, on bringing out the vines and roots from beneath the earth. Willing them to entwine the bodies and swallow them down, leaving the scattered dirt behind. 

After it was done, he exhaled slowly, standing for awhile and just breathed. Earth spells were difficult and took more of him than what came naturally. Fire was something he never could harness properly, just the small, simple things. 

Earth and fire were not his fields of magic, but Aether wielded them like Vergil his lightning and ice. 

Easy like breathing. 

The crow cawed at him from its place at the nearby branch, the sound loud in the forest silence.

* * *

Doors opened so quickly, that Vergil had to take a step back. What greeted him was Aether’s paled face, the eyes widened and frantic, looking like he saw a ghost.

_Is it because I am here?_ The thought nibbled at him, bringing back that odd feeling of sour disappointment. Still, Vergil’s gaze stayed on Aether’s face, taking in the visibly changed features. Too sharp cheekbones, usually tanned skin lost its glow. He stared at the panicked man before him with a dare, slightly tilting up his chin. 

Blocking the escape route and not having the intent to move without a talk. 

And he will have the man talking, willingly or not. 

He took a step forward and Aether backed away as well. Few steps in, like a weird looking dance. Vergil advancing forward, the healer retreating equally, until he bumped on Josephine’s desk. Only then Vergil glanced away from him, as there was another person in the room.

“Lady Montilyet,” He greeted her, nodding slightly. “Thank you for your letter. I’ve found it exceptionally intriguing. So much, I decided to visit without proper notification.” He brought his gaze back at Aether. “I apologize for the eventual inconvenience.”

“You needen’t apologize, and it is _I_, who should be thanking you for taking the time to travel to Skyhold.” She answered gracefully, standing quickly from behind her desk. “I should leave you both to your privacy, now if you’ll excuse me.” And with that she was gone, door quietly shutting behind her.

Aether winced at Josephine’s departure, fingers clutching at the desk’s edge. He was looking anywhere, but not at the Warden. Neither of them seemed eager to break the uncomfortably stretching silence. Vergil busied himself with taking off his gloves, movements slow, calmly scrutinizing Aether’s form.

_He didn’t utter a single word. So thin, the clothes are hanging on him. Is it illness too?_ He rejected the fleeting thought.

“The truth is,” At the sound of his voice Aether seemed to shudder a little, but _finally_ looked at him. “The truth is,” Vergil began anew, “that I _did_ find it curious Lady Montilyet contacted me.” He paused for a moment, using teeth to help himself with somewhat stuck glove. “What I neglected to say, was _why_ such knowledge has not come from the interested party himself.”

Aether scoffed. “I haven’t known she’d written to you. It was not her right to tell and,” He brought his arms up, crossing them tightly. “I would prefer it to stay this way.” He swallowed, looking away. “I should have done it myself.”

“But you have not, and I’m inclined to think you would not.” Vergil said, putting the gloves under his belt. “Not without a proper push anyway. Which brings us here.” He shifted, bringing off the weight from the leg. It must have been strained form the scuffle in the forest. “You look awful.”

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know.” Aether huffed, irritated. Then the shadow of anger seemed to leave him, his shoulders dropping wearily. “Last time we’ve seen each other I’ve… said things I should not have.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Bothering you to show up here was-”

“Then you are a _fool_,” Vergil’s sharp tone interrupted him, “thinking I would be somewhere I not wished to.” Aether looked at him in disbelief. His cheeks reddened, eyes suspiciously moist. “This,” Vergil gestured between them, “is making me unsure if it is my presence, that reduces you to shaking mess you want to escape so badly.” 

_And it’s a cold shard in my chest, seeing I am the source of your fear_, he didn’t add.

“And pardon me for cutting the chase,” Vergil stepped closer to Aether, “but I need to know if I am truly not welcomed here by you.” He paused, collecting himself visibly. “The time for distractions has ended.” He continued in more soft voice. “I need straight answers to simple questions. If you truly wish me to leave this time, I will. No more visits, especially when it’s not you who would explicitly write it to me. What I need, is to know, how I-… we cut it cleanly, and just stop.” 

_Even if just saying this feels like I’m drowning._

Aether watched him, eyes gleaming, surprised. And upset. He opened his mouth, but not a sound came out. He tried again, and the words still seemed to leave him. Vergil sighed, suddenly so tired, stepping away from the healer. 

Bad decisions haunted him lately. At least, they didn’t cause the emptiness, numbing him with the feel of loss.

“I think I have my answer.” He rasped, not even angry at himself. “What I ask now is a place to stay for the night, I will be on the road-”

“Why?” The quiet, slightly wobbling voice cut him off. He glanced at Aether, annoyance painting his features in cherry red. 

“Why do you say you’ll leave again when I…” He sniffed, hand coming up to rub quickly at his eye. “_I miss you._” His voice cracked slightly. He curled on himself, like expecting a blow. The shape of his collarbones even more obvious, visible throught the opened shirt.

Vergil straightened his back, striding to crowd into the healer’s personal space. The whirlwind of strange emotions seemed to calm down at Aether’s confession. He brought his fingers to grab at Aether’s chin, gently, but still forcing him to look at Vergil.

“Was it so hard to say?” He asked in deliberately lofty way, quickly seeing his mistake. The healer’s stubbornly bitten lip quivered, tears in the verge of spilling. At the sight of them, Vergil didn’t think, just moved, embracing the shorter man. His hold was tight, hands coming to cradle the back of Aether’s head and his back. 

And it seemed to do it, as after a moment of shocked stiffness, Aether started crying. With quiet sobs and gasped _“I missed you”_, face tucked into the crook of Vergil’s neck, he weeped, clutching almost desperately at the man holding him. And Vergil cradled him even closer, both relieved and worried, stroking Aether’s back with slow caress, whispering “_I’m here”._ The lump in his throat making it hard to swallow freely. 

And when Aether exhausted himself, tears drying, and swaying on his feet, Vergil just leaned down enough to get his arm under Aether’s knees, hauling him up to carry him to his chambers. 

_So light, so fragile,_ Vergil thought, walking through empty corridors, not even in need of helping himself with magic boost. Aether was quiet, letting himself being held without protest, arms around Vergil’s neck. Warm puffs of his breath and delicate fluttering of his lashes on the mage’s skin as the only signs of him being conscious.

* * *

The water was pleasantly warm, the calming scent of oils freely mingling with steam. 

Aether had his back on Vergil, as the man applied the creams to his hair. He gently held the strands, spreading the balmy substance on the strands, hopefully making them glossy and healthy looking once again. He openly fussed at the state of Aether’s skin, checking his pack for more essentials to use, making the healer’s shoulders lightly shake in quiet amusement. 

The bumps of his spine so sharp, sharper than he ever seen them, made him both want to kiss them one by one and grith his teeth in helpless anger. Vergil kept his touches smooth and careful, the movements precise and limited only to the bathing. Even if he _wanted_ to let his fingers to linger, to let himself feel more of Aether’s warm skin, _bite and mark_, he controlled himself. 

He would not jump into old habits, not with Aether’s current mindset, even if the man himself offered a tub-sharing. 

_“To save the time on water heating. And you are in a need of bath, too.”_ He said with a tentative smile, his eyes tired and still slightly puffy from earlier outburst. So he hadn’t hesitated, leaving the room only to collect his travel pack and making some orders to the first met servant. 

And now, they relaxed, unhurriedly washing themselves, taking care of their bodies to calm their minds, even for a moment. Vergil get out first, after hearing the knocking of a servant bringing food. He winced slightly, as stepping out of the tub he brought more of his weight on the strained leg. Still, turning away from the man in the bath, he grabbed the towel, getting one more for Aether.

“I told them to leave the trays beside the doors.” He said, toweling himself quickly and getting the black pants on, not bothering with covering his scarred arm and back. Aether only hummed in affirmation, slowly getting out of the water. 

After short time, they were lounging on the sofa, their sides constantly brushing, the trays with food splayed before them on low table, pitcher of water in the middle (_the wine bottle apparently meant to go with Vergil’s meal left behind the doors_). Vergil rehearsing some silly anecdotes from the Keep between the bites, watching Aether feebly nibbling on pieces of bread. He didn’t bring it up, though, seeing the exhaustion seeping from the man in waves. But his trivial tales seemed to brighten him a little, so he continued, until his plates were clean. Aether was done with his long before him, the food nearly untouched.

“Do you want to lie down?” Vergil asked, turning to the man properly. The Warden felt tired, mostly because of the swift pace he forced himself to maintain in order to get to the castle faster. He needed to rest, but not without knowing Aether would get some rest too. Not with him looking like he’d shatter at the mild push.

“I’d like that.” Aether replied softly. He hesitated, then covered Vergil’s hand with his own. “And I’d like to you lie with me.” His cheeks reddened at the implication. “For a nap only.” He quickly added.

Vergil gave him a fond little smile, pleased by the warmth of Aether’s palm. The other kind of warmth spreading in his chest thanks to the simple words and gestures.

“Of course.”

_You need only to ask._

* * *

Later, both of them lied tangled in blanket and themselves, Vergil gradually dozing off with the top of Aether’s head under his chin. Warden’s fingers lazily thumbing the skin under Aether’s ear, listening to his slow breaths. 

The warmth in him seemed to grow, something he wouldn’t think of possible missing, until it was snatched so cruelly all this time ago. 

By his own hand. 

He vowed not to make the same mistake again.


	5. Heart Balm

_You look awful_.

The words bounced around inside Aether’s mind, lethargic but needling. Ugly but correct. They lapped at him like waves on the Waking Sea. Like the bathtub water, gently jostled with the slightest movement from the man behind him, fingertips light and calm and soothing as they tenderly spreading the sweet smelling balm over his hair and skin.

Vergil cared a lot about appearances, usually about his own, but this time, Vergil was fussing about Aether, far beyond that of his usual teasings that he would prod the healer with, especially over his tendency to pout. _You’ll get wrinkles_, he would say. This time, Vergil was fussing for real.

_You look awful_.

And he knew it.

He knew that his poor appetite and lack of proper sleep the last six, almost seven months had washed him raw of the healthy tones that had once resided in his sun kissed skin, in his fair hair, and even his elfroot green eyes that were now lackluster and dull. And his body… How he wished he had been able to control _that_ better. That whenever his cheeks were even slightly more sunken than usual, his cheekbones were more noticeable. And it wasn’t just his face that had been visually affected by his lack of health. He knew it from the way that his collarbone looked sharper, and the bones of his hips.

He wondered if Vergil could see the knobs of his spine as sharply as they felt to his own hand.

Aether did know that he could still come across as healthy to strangers, a little thin but not in a way that expressed physical sickness instead of mental, but to people who were familiar with him, people who _knew_ him, they could see the difference.

_Vergil_ could see the difference.

But what shame Aether felt from allowing himself to get this bad went silent as Vergil tended to him, gently and quietly pampering him in ways he had almost forgotten. It had been so long.

The warm water was as soothing as the actions, as soothing as the presence of the other mage who later made him tiredly smile, and even laugh a little bit, as the Warden Commander would tell the healer all of what he had missed from Vigil’s Keep, of how his fellow Wardens were. It was good to hear everyone was doing well.

Vergil must have noticed his exhaustion, or maybe he assumed such by the way he barely touched his food from lack of general appetite, because he gently inquired if he wanted to lay down. And the answer Aether gave him was replied in turn with a fond smile that made the worry in his heart ease up.

All because of a confession of _I miss you_.

A confession that was answered with _I’m here_.

And Aether went to sleep that night with his heart feeling lighter than it had in months.

* * *

It took mere hours for Aether to wake again and drowsy eyes sleepily stared at the little bit of pale skin he could see peeking out from the shoulder of a black tunic-shirt, and beyond that, the ceiling of the rich bedroom that was his own, bathed in moonlight that poured in from the large balcony windows that sat closed to keep the chilly night air at bay.

It was so strange to wake up not in his hammock, tucked away in the dark little closet that used to also be dedicated to keeping his private stash of wine. To sleep in his actual bed was more proof to the exhausted healer that the afternoon before had not just been an awful and wonderful dream, that the sweet smells of perfumed balms had been more than just his missing Vergil coming to a head.

It was real.

This was real.

And a tired smile curled on his lips and he breathed deeply, sedating himself a little with the soft scent of Vergil’s favored bath oils in his nose.

And although it put him at ease, it did not help him fall asleep.

He and Vergil had gone to bed too early and Aether had missed his nightly ration of sleeping draught.

That or Vergil told the apothecary to not bother them.

Aether wasn’t entirely sure.

But as he tried to doze off, he thought about how they all began.

Strange to think it was coming up on thirteen years since the day Aether had found himself trapped up a tree by werewolves only to be rescued by a party of people who, at the time being, he had no idea consisted of three Grey Wardens, one who became King of Ferelden, the second who eventually was the husband of the Empress’s Arcane Advisor and Liaison to the Inquisition, and the third who wore the title Hero of Ferelden and Warden Commander publically.

Vergil was such an awful flirt back then too.

If not for the Dalish Warden insisting on lingering a little longer once Zathrian’s clan was safe, that was all Vergil would have been to Aether. But things happened just the way they had and that forest was where the two of them truly began what would transform into what they were today.

A sharp and sudden ache in his left hand dragged his attention away from his peaceful musings and he winced from the Anchor’s flare.

It had been doing that more often since encountering Telana’s barrier during the excavation of the Frostback Basin. More often but the flares were no more painful than they had been since the first time the mark grew more powerful, back after Corypheus’s attack on Haven.

At this point it was just a mild annoyance.

A heavy sigh hefted in Aether’s chest and he curled his fingers, nuzzling his face against Vergil’s skin.

He had to try to get some sleep.

But what sleep came was poor and he woke frequently and morning came all too soon with the sound of Aether’s personal rooster closing the door behind her and coming up the stairs, the scent of breakfast wafting into the room and Aether couldn’t help immediately feeling sick to his stomach.

Aether listened as her steps hit the landing and then paused, perhaps hesitating under the view of the two sleeping in the bed, and then there was the sound of a heavy tray being put down, one, two steps and then…

“Not a step closer.”

He didn’t even realize that Vergil was awake, hadn’t noticed the change in his breathing, hadn’t noticed the change in his heart beating against his ear.

“That’ll be all. Dismissed,” Vergil’s low voice added, scratchy from sleep.

There was hesitation, and then the familiar chirpy voice of the servant reached his ears.

“Excluding meals, Ambassador Montilyet has cleared the Inquisitor’s schedule for the day.”

Aether quietly thought a blessing to the esteemed ambassador as he listened to her quieter retreat and then heard the door close. Once it was, he sighed and felt his entire body relax, and Aether allowed himself to doze back off until this time it was Vergil who disturbed him by moving, by uncoiling his arms from around the Inquisitor and pulling away.

Aether felt anxiety creep into his chest when he felt the man get out of bed, but that was eased when he felt the bed sink once more and he felt Vergil’s fingers lightly stroke over his hair briefly as the Warden settled himself back down, not to sleep more, but to eat in bed. With that peace of mind, Aether quietly stretched out, feeling long and gangly if only for a moment before he curled back up onto himself, unwilling to open his eyes, to be aware of anything more than what he heard and felt, and just wished himself to go back to sleep.

He probably was for a few minutes, he doubted it was an hour, before he felt the gentle rousing touch of Vergil at his shoulder.

“You should eat something,” Vergil quietly said.

“’m not hungry,” Aether murmured in sleepy protest.

“I know, but you still should,” he reasoned, “even if it’s just a little.”

He didn’t want to eat, but a little was not unreasonable and it was Vergil who was asking.

Lethargically, Aether sat up and rubbed his puffy eyes, suddenly and desperately craving his salt rock that was clear on the other side of the room, hiding somewhere on the mess that was his desk that needed to be organized, badly.

The servant who normally woke him wasn’t allowed to touch anything on the desk.

But for the first time since the intervention, Aether’s morning was quiet as Vergil gently encouraged the Inquisitor to drink some water and nibble on some fruit, allowing his mind to slowly wake up by itself while the body ran on autopilot. It felt both peaceful and awkward, just the two of them eating in his bed, reminding him of the odd times off and on before the fight where the same would happen, although back then it had been without Vergil’s urging and without Aether’s silence.

Eventually though, their day sluggishly came to a start and fond old habits began to settle again as Aether mildly demanded for the bandages and salve for Vergil’s scarred arm.

“I can use my teeth like always, but if you insist.”

“I do insist,” Aether stated with a proud huff before his voice took on a scolding tone as he added, “and I will be taking a look at your leg too.”

And Vergil let him.

Aether observed closely as he carefully tended to the scar, watched the way the muscles beneath would tense and listened for every occasional hiss. It still amazed Aether how sensitive the area was no matter how careful he was. But eventually the old wound was wrapped and the healer moved on to Vergil’s leg, drawing it across his lap so he could lend it proper attention.

“How did this happen?” the healer asked as he began, his hands warm with magic as they carefully massaged balm into Vergil’s sensitive and swollen ankle, his ears pricking slightly from a muffled sound that Vergil made. “Does that hurt?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Vergil started, adding “much,” like an afterthought. “I don’t think I was ready for your magic. Forgot how it feels.”

A fond smile softly betrayed his own lips, warmth seeping into his chest as well as a small spark of sadness.

He didn’t want Vergil to ever forget.

Swallowing the nerves that had started to stick in his throat, Aether continued, ignoring his own thoughts in favor of healing, listening for any sounds of discomfort in response to his actions. Even when he had finished with the ankle and moved on to the strained muscle in Vergil’s thigh, his hands warm and soothing and careful and comforting as they carefully worked away all pain and discomfort until the irritation in the matter was gone.

It felt like an accomplishment, however small.

That sort of feeling was far and few between.

But just like Ameridan told him, Aether took the moments of happiness where he found them.

Because the world would without a doubt take the rest.

* * *

The nobles left a day early, not because of the Inquisition, but rather because of Vergil, and Aether didn’t know what to do with his emotions on the matter.

On one hand, he felt glad that they were leaving, and apparently had only good things to say about the Inquisition, but on the other hand, he felt bad because they were leaving out of anger directed towards Vergil, who could not be entirely blamed for his automatic response to their yappy little shit of a dog slamming into his ankles, after all, when one had spent as long as Vergil had regularly getting attacked by darkspawn that would spring up from underfoot, it was somewhat expected for a defensive attack to be used.

Unfortunately that meant that the nobles would likely spread awful gossip about Vergil and potentially the Grey Wardens as a whole.

The entire matter gave Aether a headache as he reluctantly sat down to the scheduled evening meal.

And when the plate was put down in front of him, the Inquisitor felt surprise spark in his stomach and Vergil spoke up.

“I made a suggestion to the cook about portions,” he explained, noting that his portion at lunch seemed to be too much for him, and quietly, Aether stared at the portion.

It was smaller.

It felt a little easier to manage.

And Aether smiled a little for the ease.

“Food has been difficult for me the last few months,” Aether admitted to Vergil as he quietly began to eat. “My appetite just isn’t really there anymore.”

“You need fuel for this wonderful mind of yours,” Vergil said, his voice with humor, “So we’ll get to it. Even cheat the brain out of its stubbornness.”

And the healer smiled.

“How would you suggest to trick it?”

And Vergil did have suggestions, of smaller portions and light snacks in between meals and plenty of water. Vergil even suggested the idea of using a potion to promote appetite, one that he himself used to help prevent when the Taint might take him by surprise and make him feel like he was starving to the point of gorging himself until sick, which did no one any good.

They were all good ideas, and Aether approved of them all as a healer, even if he himself was the patient.

It was better than forcing him to eat so much food all in one sitting and make him feel sick and spiteful until the next meal.

Vergil’s council on the matter was appreciated.

And, quietly, the Inquisitor could feel things start to change, if only for the better.

For _him_ to get better.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a warm afternoon, with sky clear and some rare clouds. He was lying on a stone bench in the garden, with a pillow under his head and book in his hand. Thick blanket under his back, to stave off the cold radiating from the stone. Shadows danced on his form, with the leaves of a tree above him gently swaying with an occasional breeze. 

He could hear Aether humming softly some wordless song, fingers stained with the soil. Completely focused on weeding out the wild plants not belonging in his garden. And what a garden that was – a quiet place with so much shades of green, low and tall bushes, vines going along and up the walls, herbs and other useful plants. Wooden statue of Mythal, the craftmanship proudly on display, small area around it considerately tended to.

He couldn’t remember, when he felt so content. Any nagging thought, reminding him of his responsibilities, was squashed down immedietaly. It was a constant battle, to let himself take a break and just_ be_. He knew, that he left the important matters in capable hands and that the world won’t burn, if he’d take few days only for himself. 

And Aether. 

He was here for Aether. 

And he planned to stay as long as he could. 

Aether’s workload was significially cut down, to only few necessary things a day, which demanded Inquisitor’s attention. 

Lady Montyliet was a truly talented diplomat.

Because of most time spent on the fresh air and somewhat fixed problem with meals, Aether’s skin looked better, getting back the healthy colour of natural tan. His eyes didn’t look so tired anymore.

Vergil glanced back to the page he was reading. Or more like staring now, without seeing the text. 

There was… this thought, whenever he looked at Aether. Or more like a dark, selfish urge, since he saw him at his most vulnerable. 

Both mentally and physically. 

It came and went, the prodding desire to snatch the healer _away_ from the world, hide and lock from anything which may hurt him. He would make sure to keep him safe and comfortable, to-

_To push him in golden cage and throw away the key._

_To change him into someone he is not and make him miserable._

Aether would never accept being chained like that. And he would not forgive him for taking away his freedom.

_Just like you would resent anyone taking away yours. _The voice in his mind whispered.

“Vergil?” The voice startled him from murky thoughts. He focused back on the surroundings, like coming back to the surface from deep underwater. Sometimes, he felt like his thoughts belonged to someone else. Or this _particular_ thoughts have been woken up, because he had someone to _lose._

“Vergil, are you alright? “Aether’s concerned face peered into his vision. He looked at the healer’s features, the smudge of dirt on his cheek. Vergil wordlessly turned on the bench to sit back. He brought up his hand, to wipe it off, gently rubbing the streak of soil with his thumb.

_Golden cage._

“I’m fine.” He murmured and the furrow between Aether’s brows eased.

_Throw the key away._

“Did you ask me something? I haven’t heard.” Vergil felt his smile was a little forced. He let his arm down. The smudge didn’t come off completely.

_Hide and lock._

Aether tilted his head to the side, looking at Vergil’s hand then at him. He seemed to think about something, then rubbed the sleeve of his tunic at the dirtied spot faultlessly, cleaning it off.

_Snatch away. _

“I wanted to know, if you’d like to have an earlier dinner.” He smiled sheepishly. “I got a little hungry after weeding plants for so long.”

_Cage. Lock. Away._

_ **Shut. Up.** _

He stared at the greenest eyes he _ever_ encountered. The glimmer in them was back. He never wanted to see them so dull like before.

“I’d like that.” He replied, standing up from the bench, leaving the book behind. “What are you in _mood_ for?” He stressed the word on purpose, seeing the colour creeping lightly on Aether’s cheeks. The man huffed with amusement and Vergil’s smile was more genuine at the sight. They walked slowly to the kitchens, Vergil’s hand near the small of Aether’s back.

* * *

Vergil used the soaked cloth to rinse off sweat on his neck and arms. He stood near water barrel, the crispy evening air refreshing after such intense training session. 

Cassandra was a headstrong warrior and an ideal sparring partner for Vergil. After few days of not doing much beside reading, talking and lazily spending the time away, he felt the unspent energy buzzying under his skin. And as he hadn’t have the occasion to do much in the matter of spending the time in more pleasurable way, he asked the Seeker for a sparring match, seeing how the woman often trained by herself.

And as it turned out, she was happy to indulge him. He grimaced slightly at the painful bruise at his side, and many smaller ones littering his body. The Seeker wasn’t holding back, as they agreed on, and Vergil relayed purely on his skills and reflexes, no magic. Still, he was contend with this session and the aching muscles weren’t bothering him much. 

Maybe he’ll have the chance to reveal in feeling of Aether’s talented hands on his skin later. 

The Inquisitor had some urgent matters to take care of and Vergil was left on his own. 

It was the first time they weren’t in each other’s company for longer than few hours. 

Their days looked similarly, with them lounging on the balcony with small meals, or in the garden with Aether working with plants and Vergil reading. Aether slept better, ate a little more and it seemed his spirit was lifted. 

They talked, about mundane and more serious things. 

Like their last fight, which teared them apart for so long. Aether insisted on an apology, and while Vergil listened to his arguments on the matter, he pointed his own. 

Both of them were at the bad mental places, because of the timing and the responsibilities weighting them down. 

Both were out of line, having the best intentions. 

Both were too quick to fall in bed with each other, the hunger not sated after separation for so long. 

And both were too quick to anger, patience thin and snapping, lashing and hurting in violent temper.

But now, the air between them seemed to be cleared. Still, the touches happened, tentative and brief, mostly friendly and with innocent purpose. 

Vergil felt the itch to reach for more, to dig his fingers and hold Aether like he used to. To torment him with sweet pleasure and do it for hours, listening to his breathless voice demanding more and see once more, how beautiful he was under his attention.

Vergil snorted quietly, leaving the coutyard behind, walking to the garden. The evening light was getting darker and, despite chillier air, he wanted to meditate for awhile surrounded by greenery. He pressed fingertips to the wrist of his left arm, efortlessly cooling the slightly irritated skin with a gust of ice magic. Today he used the bandages to just protect the skin from the sun, with sleeveless tunic and an arm bracer on his dominant hand. He felt the skin on his neck completely dry, as his hair were tied in now messy bun at the back of his head.

He came to a stop at the roots of a big tree, the garden quiet and smelling of few plants he couldn’t find a name for. Nevertheless, the scent made him relaxed and he sat down, crossing his legs and straightening his back. Once in position, he closed his eyes and let himself breathe slowly and deeply, thoughts stalling down as well. 

He was tired and bruised, but felt satisfied. 

It was amusing, that once he decided on waiting for this delicate thing between him and Aether to grow, the trust strong once more, he hasn’t had in mind to search for someone else. And he would have his chances, as most of the staff in Skyhold was fairly attractive. 

He just wasn’t interested in quick and forgettable anymore. 

Even if it was like that in the past, years of Aether and him on and off, and many others in between. But when with Aether, never anyone more for how long they have been together. 

And then came the times when they were not. Vergil indulging in fleeting lovers, only satiating his basic desires. And he slowly started noticing, that his one time companions had something similar with, the one person he was constantly coming back to. 

Firstly, he dismissed it, then it unsettled him and after ups and downs, he came to terms with it. 

He wanted to share the pieces of his life with Aether, no one else.

He felt the change in the air, the last rays of light snatched to darkness. The sounds coming from the castle muffled by the wall of green. The aches of his body slowly fading as his mind relaxed even further. 

Time passed, he didn’t feel much of the chill.

But he heard the silent footsteps, the soft sigh and the rustling, as someone sat nearby, without disturbing him.

When he finally opened his eyes, he was surrounded by scattered balls of small wisps, their lights dulled. He smiled faintly, turning to the side, where the light was brighter. 

Aether was scribbling something in one of his many journals, a thick blanket on his shoulders. The healer was so focused on whatever he was writing that he didn’t notice Vergil moving, until he sat near his slightly parted legs.

“This is how it should look like.” He said quietly, Aether’s surprised eyes looking up from his work.

“What?” He asked with a distracted frown.

Vergil leaned into his space, his gaze on the other’s face, on slightly parted lips, on the shine of his eyes, the pools of so many emotions, looking straight at him without flinch. 

With trust.

He made his mind long ago. 

He just didn’t _know_ it at the time.

“I never took pleasure in leaving you behind.” He started, mesmerized by the look of lights dancing in Aether’s eyes.

“Us, going on with our affairs separately,” Aether’s startled expression changed into tender one, “even if I understood the necessity.”

“Imagination can go only so far,” Vergil spoke in lower tone. “And thinking about the whereabouts, of _what if’s_ can make one run to a wall.” His smile was small, self-deprecating. “We both live dangerous lives. I’m past uncertainty and hesitation and deceiving myself to admit that I do _care_ about you enough, to come back to you. If you only ask.”

There. 

He finally said it. 

And with weird feeling of anticipation watched the flurry of emotions play on Aether’s face. 

When he spoke, he looked worried.

_Was it not something he wanted to hear after all?_

“How long is it going to last?” He asked in small voice, arms tight around his journal, now pressed against his chest.

_Was he not clear enough?_

“How long are you going to stay?” Aether pressed on. “I know you have other matters needing your attention. I have matters that need my _attention._” He stressed the words with reluctance. “It scares me, this little bit of normalcy and peace, _ending_ again.” At Vergil’s silence he looked at him with his eyes pleading. “I want you to come back, but at the same time I don’t want you to go.”

And he did understand what Aether was trying to say. 

He was ready to admit it, and do something about it. 

Slowly, he reached out his hand to uncoil Aether’s left palm from around his notebook. He curled his fingers gently, holding the healer’s hand, leaving a soft kiss on his knuckles.

“We can try make it work with what we have?” He smiled, dropping Aether’s hand down, but not letting go. “After all, we are who we are, because of the lives we have.” 

Vergil swallowed, testing the next words he had on the tip of his tongue for some time now. 

He felt exposed. 

“I am willing to go beyond what we had agreed on, all this years ago.” He huffed lightly. “I think we went beyond that already, just… hadn’t named it. “

Aether bit his lip, his face going from slight red to darker shade. 

“Is this what I think you ask of me?” He asked hesitantly.

“It’s me asking you to be my only partner, yes.” Vergil squeezed Aether’s hand. “I’m not good with relationships.” He added, shaking his head. “Hadn’t have the will to be in one.”

“I…” Aether licked his lips and Vergil’s gaze flickered to them. He wanted to feel the soft skin under his own mouth again.

_No. _

_Not yet. _

_It’s not your move to make this time._

“All right.” Vergil glanced back at Aether’s eyes. “We’ll try.” He said with a nod.

Vergil felt a weight lifting from his shoulders and smiled, truly pleased. He stood up, just to avoid lurching himself on healer, and smother him senselessly with kisses. 

He tugged on Aether’s hand, still grasped in his own palm, urging him up. 

They had some more things to discuss and it called for the change in surroundings.


	7. Set in Amber

“You’re staring.”

A soft huff of laughter stuttered in Aether’s chest, and the healer absently traced shapes with a warm, tanned fingertip against the other’s collarbone.

“I can’t help it,” Aether murmured, slowly shifting to prop himself up a little better, leaning away from Vergil’s chest, their skin subtly sticking together from dried sweat. “It has been entirely too long since I last saw you like this.”

Gleaming amber brown eyes opened and Aether felt the hand Vergil had on his waist slowly slide down to his bare hip, the other one carefully tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as the Warden Commander looked at him almost in wonder. His motions were slow and soft as his fingers cradled Aether’s jaw, and Aether closed his eyes as a thumb traced over his lips, pressing a tender kiss against the pad as he leaned into the contact.

A languid smile reached Vergil’s lips.

“It has been,” he quietly agreed before he drew his lover in to savor another long and sweet kiss.

_It had been_, and Aether clung almost desperately to the hope that it would never again be that long. By Mythal, he _prayed_.

But still, Ameridan’s words echoed in his mind.

_Take moments of happiness where you find them._

Aether twisted his fingers in Vergil’s long black hair, their kiss growing eager and more desperate.

_Moments of happiness_.

He could feel the raised ridges of magic-made scars on the arm that slid up around his back, pulling him flush and Aether could feel fire singing in his veins and the softest sheets in Ferelden beneath his shoulders as Vergil rolled them over, and he marveled under the sensations of _him_ all over again.

The sheer tenderness that now accompanied every action, every _word_ between them still left Aether in awe, trembling under a high that was as emotional as it was physical, still baffled that this was his _reality_, that _this_… that _they_ had become _more_.

Aether had spent so long being in love with Vergil but refusing to say anything because he thought, he _thought_ Vergil would never feel the same way, that _they_ would never feel the same way, that he would have to accept his life as simply being a friend with benefits and eventually he’d find someone who wanted _him_, and his heart would eventually choose the person who wanted _him_ rather than staying hung up on his emotions towards Vergil, but… he already had found someone who wanted him, the both of them just didn’t realize it.

It took nearly losing each other for it all to fall into place.

Vergil _chose_ him.

Over everyone.

Vergil had chosen him over his duty to the Wardens, to come and help him, to get out of his depression, to stop him from sabotaging his own recovery, to help him _heal_, and in the weeks that had come after his arrival like a storm, Aether did recover, but the hesitation in his heart was not washed away like a cleansing rain until that talk.

_This is how it should look like._

Something had been missing until that moment.

And now, Aether could feel himself _breathe_.

Vergil chose _him_.

“You’re shaking,” Vergil murmured in his ear, and Aether couldn’t help the tremor that ran through his traitorous body, face flush with pleasure, dangerously close to the edge as he felt teasing fingers just _barely_ restraining him from that drop.

“Please,” Aether whispered, low and wanting, voice raw from all his beloved had already drawn from it.

“What do you want? You can ask for it,” he purred, teasing as the Warden Commander gently reminded his Inquisitor of his rule: _Just ask and you will have it_.

He forgot all too often.

Or much rather he struggled with asking.

“Please,” he murmured softly as he leaned up, pressing his lips to the sweaty column of Vergil’s pale throat, “please say it again?”

And Vergil smiled, hips rocking slowly against his and fingers gently stroked clinging strands away from his eyes.

And he did.

“I choose you over everyone.”

And it was all Aether ever had wanted.

* * *

Eventually though, duty called Vergil back to the reality of life that he lived, and it was a reality Aether couldn’t follow, not with the life that _he_ lived as well.

The Inquisition needed him, just as much as the Wardens needed Vergil.

And so they were separated, if only by distance.

Leliana, Divine Victoria, Aether supposed he should now be calling her, was glad that he was making good use of the rookery now. He was writing letters. Keeping in contact better. With Dorian, and Cassandra, and Blackwall, and Sera, and Bull, and Vivienne, and Cullen, and Varric, and Cole.

And Vergil.

There were some times where he had so much to tell Vergil that the bird might even have a day or two to rest before it was sent skyward again, and other times, it was just a simple note, keeping in touch. Letting little thoughts linger and reach out.

In the months that followed, Vergil came as often as he could, both bringing news of their own endeavors, stories, plans, and worries.

Among Aether’s concerns was a problem looming on the horizon like a black stormcloud, heading straight for the Inquisition. Despite Leliana’s best efforts to shield the Inquisition from political matters as long as possible, she could not delay this any longer. An Exalted Council was to be called, to determine the role, and possibly the fate, of the Inquisition, in order to ease the concerns of both Orlais and Ferelden.

Aether understood the necessity, and had even discussed it before with Vergil.

The Inquisition could not last forever, and truly he didn’t want it to. It was beginning to being seen as a threat to both Orlais and Ferelden the way that the organization was now beginning to seem like a small nation on its own with their numerous connections, proud military force, and underground spy network, as though proud noble houses in both countries didn’t have their own. But the Inquisition was not a noble house and anything that had too much power bore risk of corruption.

Entirely too many people could get hurt.

Vergil had his own concerns that he needed to address in Orlais as well, and that brought the reassurance that they would not be too far from each other during the Exalted Council.

And although it was a reassurance Aether hoped he did not need, he couldn’t help but feel the twinge of worry…

* * *

While it was wonderful to have his entire inner circle gathered together again, the Exalted Council was turning out to be an enormous headache.

Ferelden wanted the Inquisition entirely dismantled, which Aether was not entirely opposed to, while Orlais wanted to leash and collar the Inquisition for their own, essentially making it an extension of its military force, which Aether was greatly opposed to.

But what bothered Aether was the accusations, some which were stretches of imagination at best and blatant lies at worst. Had King Alistair paid any notice to the letters Aether personally wrote as to the matter dealing with Caer Bronach Keep, one of them wouldn’t even have been an issue, but instead the request had gone unanswered if not entirely ignored, and Aether had one of Leliana’s scouts to testify that the letter, _letters_, had in fact reached the palace, a fact that made Arl Teagan of Redcliffe go red in the face at being, in not so few words, called a liar by the Inquisitor.

The Dalish elf had no intention of backing down.

He kept a spine of steel that Vergil would be proud of in the face of these dignitaries, until of course, the meeting was put on recess.

And then Aether found himself facing a different issue entirely.

And he wondered how many more times he would find himself climbing blood-stained trellises at the Winter Palace, or using an Eluvian.

The Crossroads was just as beautiful as he remembered, and the Elvhen ruins in the mountains that he found himself in was picturesque.

And…

Dangerous.

_Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir-anaris._

The Well of Sorrows whispered the answer to him at his request, and the ghostly sentinels let them travel in peace, to explore the ruined towers and to discover more. And then the Anchor reacted like Veil Fire to the ancient mosaic pieces, stinging sharply in his palm as the secrets whispered to him.

Fen’Harel.

The Dread Wolf.

Not as a god of mischief, but as a mortal of rebellion.

And the elvhen gods…

The entire thing left Aether’s head spinning with questions, but those questions had to wait until later, until the more pressing issue was handled.

Like the mystery of the Qunari that had taken up camp there.

And the Anchor’s reaction to the elvhen device.

It was starting to build up its own charge, passively. And he could use this charge to protect himself.

This development was worrying.

And when the elvhen ruin had been cleared and qunari instructions had been found, Aether and his party returned through the evanuris to inform the rest of his circle what had been discovered.

He had a bad feeling about all of this, and before he laid down his weary head to rest, a crow was sent out, a message to Vergil. He didn’t know if it would reach him in time, or if he even could find time to step away from his duties to come help, but Aether would not keep this from him.

He would not.

Not when the aching Anchor in his palm was starting to grow...


	8. Chapter 8

He couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the eluvian. The surface of mirror, rippling gently.

Constantly changing. 

Like water, with a soft light beneath it’s depth. Blurred shapes of the other side, impossible to recognize, until taking step into them.

He didn’t dare cross the threshold. 

It was so tempting. 

To take action and cease this useless pacing. Feeling trapped and powerless. Aether was out there, his last letter more of a note. Admitting that the Anchor was getting worse and the pain was getting bad with every flare.

Vergil stopped before the mirror, gaze boring into it.

The eluvian.

Aether kept his word and wrote to him on every, even small thing. Being in touch like that was comforting, especially with the distance.

The circumstances keeping them separated seemed to multiply on spot. The Warden shortly found out, that knowing there is someone waiting and missing him was a bittersweet relief. Especially when there were places he couldn’t venture with Aether. Couldn’t follow.

The shapes kept changing repeatedly, and he stared at them, almost without blinking.

He didn’t know, what waited for him there and as Aether once explained, one needed to know how exactly navigate in a place called the crossroads. To find a right path, and a right eluvian to use next.

He didn’t dare go in blind, with a possibility of getting lost and missing Aether and his companions on their way back.

Because Aether had to be back, and swiftly. There was a Council waiting to be closed with a final decision. And he had a feeling about Aether’s decision on the matter of Inquisition. Now he had to wait and see, if his predictions were correct. 

He stepped away from the mirror, with a deep sigh, picking up on his pacing. Reading was out of question, as he couldn’t focus enough on the text and the meditation was also completly-

Someone suddenly tumbling out of the portal had Vergil reflexively call on ice shards. He cancelled them out immedietaly, recognizing Aether’s qunari companion and seeing the next person, _Varric_, and next, _Suledin_, and… _  
_

_Why does she look like she’s been crying?_ _She never… _

_Where’s Aether?_

… and _there_ was the Inquisitor, carried by the Tevinter mage. 

Ashen pale, likely passed out. 

Vergil felt himself freeze on the sight of his lover bloodied and hurt. 

Why _so_ much blood? He didn’t look good. He looked like on a verge of death. 

_Or maybe even over it already. _

_You couldn’t even protect him._ _  
_

_And now he’s-   
_

_SHUT UP!_

* * *

There was a lot of motion, shouts of alarm and orders, running and searching for a healer.

Aether’s unconscious body was laid on a table, left arm wrapped in cloth carefully put by his side, to avoid any further damage, while unstrapping pieces of the armor. Suledin was hovering nearby, her face grim, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The healer and Dorian worked quickly in removing the armor, the mage retelling the most important parts of the incident leading to this end.

To Aether in this condition.

Vergil stood nearby, mindful of not getting in the way. Still, like a statue and nearly not breathing. With blank face and eyes sharp, taking on all of others movements. 

Calmly observing. Inside he was seething. 

At Aether, for getting hurt so badly. 

At Inquisitor’s companions, letting this to happen.

At the one most likely responsible for his lover’s state, the elven mage. 

At himself, for not being there when Aether needed him the most. 

The cloth on Aether’s arm was soaked and slowly removed. 

The stench of blood and burnt meat reached him first. Smell, like on corpses, mangled without recognition by darkspawn or cruelly licked by fire.

The Warden staggered a little. Gritting his teeth, Vergil forced himself to pull it together. Breathing through his mouth, he dared to look at the uncovered limb. 

And he wished he hadn’t. 

He heard gasps and someone running out of the room, faint retching sounds near door. Despite the bile rising in his throat, he stared at the amount of damage the Anchor had done to Aether’s body. The hand, arm to his elbow blackened, scorched, the skin dead. Some kind of mucus sluggishly oozing from it, bones charred. It was beyond repair, even with magic.

The healer looked sickened by the view, sweat gathering on her temples. Still, her hands were steady, when she announced that the permanent removal of the maimed arm is the only way to keep Inquisitor from death.

“I’ll need help with slowing the bleeding after the arm is severed.” She said. “And to make sure he’s unconscious. Cutting throught the elbow would be a shock enough for his body to wake up.” She added, getting the tools ready. “Any spells to keep him under will do.”

“The ice.” Vergil spoke. Everyone looked up at him. “Wouldn’t it slower the flow?” He suggested. “The blade cut would be easier.”

The healer thought for a moment, then nodded. “It should ease the process, if it’ll penetrate the skin and bone structure.”

“I’ll do it.” He volunteered quietly. Meanwhile, Dorian casted a sleeping spell and Aether’s body relaxed visibly. The mage stayed close to Inquisitor’s head, in case of repeating it, when needed.

Vergil swallowed before touching the blackened skin of Aether’s left hand. The cold seeped out of his fingertips slowly, freezing deeply into the seared skin. Frost binding the spaces, adding layer after layer. Until it looked like an arm bracer made of ice. Frozen and ready do be shattered. He added one more, less thicker layer above the scorched limb. Easy to remove with a flick of a thought, necessary to stop the bleeding. He glanced at Aether’s face, peacefully looking, thanks to the artificial slumber.

“It’s done.” The Warden announced, stepping back.

Now, he needed to trust the people taking care of the Inquisitor, to know what they were doing.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

At that moment, Vergil loathed the feeling of helplessness in his chest with a passion he reserved for his enemies.

* * *

First night and day after the rushed operation were full of people keeping watch over the Inquisitor. The healer fussing over proper care of the remaining arm. Inquisitor’s companions dropping by and keeping even brief vigil by his side. Palace’s servants instructed on checking on the Inquisitor in strict time intervals, in case he woke up.

On second day, the nervous running around ceased a bit, with healer’s instruction on calling for her immediately, if something happened. She was pleased by the results, wrapping the wound in fresh healing paste and bandages. The Inquisitor hadn’t experienced any more serious damages. Aether’s sleep was undisturbed and his own now, his body likely to heal better in peace.

Vergil hadn’t left the room, the bath and meals only exceptions. He was used to abandoning sleep in time of need and refused to close his eyes.

In fear of Aether waking up with a request and him missing it. 

_One more day_, he told himself. He’ll hold out for one more, and if nothing happens, he’ll nap. For now, his thoughts were enough to keep him up. He read to pass the time, sitting nearby Aether’s bed. More often than not, Vergil caught himself looking at his lover’s face.

He didn’t touch him.

_Until he wakes up._

He won’t touch him.

_Only when he’ll wake up._

* * *

Then came the second night.

Aether still slept.

People came and went, the healer changed the bandages, the servants now forbidden to enter the room. With a constant presence of someone in there, be it Inquisitor’s companions or the Warden.

Deep in the night, in hushed silence, only a rustling of turned pages might be heard. And if one strained his ears more, soft breathing of a sleeping man.

Vergil closed the book, cancelling the wisp. He brought both of his hands to rub his face tiredly. The mage glanced at Aether. 

Unmoving still.

_“I’ll be damned if my own hand kills me, I am NOT leaving you.”_

The last note Vergil got from him.

Abandoning the chair, he walked closer to Aether’s bed and carefully sat on his left side, mindful of the bandaged arm.

He won’t touch him until he wakes up.

_You’ll break him._

He won’t touch until.

_You’ll make him shatter like an ice statue._

He won’t.

Vergil blinked, his fingertips now delicately tracing the lines of Aether’s vallaslin. He recoiled his slightly trembling hand, fingers curling and nails digging into his palm painfully. He let out a shuddered gasp.

He remained there, breathing slowly and measuringly. Willing his wildly beating heart to slow down.

Aether’s slumber undisturbed.

_“I am NOT leaving you.”_

“Some promises can’t be broken.” He whispered to the sleeping man. “Don’t break this one. “

_Please. _


	9. Precious Scars

Aether had blood in his teeth in the moment of determination where he made the Iron Bull promise that if it came down to it, if it really got that bad, that if he told the horned man to cut off his arm, that he would do it. He did not ask this out of fear for his own life, they all knew, but rather because he wasn’t willing to leave people behind.

Even in Varric’s cheesiest novel ideas, Aether was the ‘true’ heroic type, looking so sure and so fierce even when his own hand was slowly killing him.

Suledin was proud of him.

But she was also so scared.

What if, despite his every effort to save Thedas, to stop the Qunari invasion in its tracks and to protect Solas despite being a bastard agent of Fen’Harel, he still died and she lost _another_ father figure.

_Creators_, Suledin prayed, _please don’t take him away. He’s all I have left_.

He fought fiercely through the fray of Qunari, discharging the Anchor at almost every opportunity that he could but she didn’t know why, she didn’t _understand_ why he was using it if it was causing him so much pain, if it was oozing so much blood that his gauntlet was stained nearly black, but she couldn’t stop to think. She had to have his back in this fight, and she did until she lost all her arrows to the enemy and finally drew her daggers.

It was the Qunari mage, chained and masked, that blocked their path and Suledin knew that every moment the Saarebas delayed them, the farther the Viddasala got away, the eluvian’s surface wavering and rippling behind the mage’s barrier. Varric got caught in the Anchor Blast Aether had used to finish off the Qunari, and Suledin felt Aether flinch under her hand when she whirled him away from Varric and shoved him towards the mirror.

“Go! We’ll catch up!”

A moment of hesitation and he dashed through the eluvian.

Anxiety crept up her throat as she watched the wavering shadow of him disappear from the mirror’s image and then she bowed over to gag on her nerves, barely restraining her stomach from turning inside out.

It wasn’t the battle that did it, but the fear that nested in her gut after she had _smelled_ him.

Aether smelled like death.

No.

That was his arm.

The Anchor.

Once she steeled herself, she began pulling arrows from those she had felled while Dorian did the best of his ability to medic Varric.

Once the dwarf was on his feet and no longer staggering, the four of them hurried through the eluvian.

Multiple Qunari stood petrified, frozen forever in stone, posed to attack, and Suledin gaped in horror.

_What could be so powerful to be able to do this?_ she wondered as she knocked an arrow, scouting ahead of the group.

And then she saw them up ahead, the sun glinting off of Solas’s pale skullcap.

He was wearing golden armor, crouched by an active eluvian, the surface shimmering with some far-off place.

She drew back her bowstring, fierce anger scorching through her.

And then she saw _him_ as Solas stood.

Aether was sitting up against the frame of the eluvian and he was looking up at Solas, his teeth almost white as he spoke to Solas, like they were just two old friends. Like Solas wasn’t at fault for all the pain Aether was in, the same Solas, who gave the orb to Corypheus which had leveled the Conclave and put the Anchor on his hand.

As though Aether thought Solas had done nothing wrong.

And Solas glanced over his shoulder at Suledin, his expression unreadable, and he shook his head.

And then stepped through the eluvian.

Then the mirror went dark.

All thoughts vanished as she dashed forward to Aether’s side, her knees hitting the ground hard and she reached out with trembling hand, hesitant though to touch him.

He had a belt cinched tight around his left arm, above the elbow. A tourniquet, compressing the chainmail of his armor in just the right way to slow the flow of blood and stench of hot rot.

He smelled like death.

And those elfroot green eyes, drooping with exhaustion, looked up to her, and he _smiled_.

“Hey,” he greeted softly, his voice quiet. Peaceful. “It’s gonna be okay.”

He said that so easily to her.

Dorian dropped to his other side.

“_Kaffas_, that looks bad,” the Vint cursed as he looked at the arm, far from being any stretch of a healer that Aether was.

Aether made a soft sound, like a confirmation, but he looked at peace as he told his friends that the tourniquet would do for now, until they got back. “We should hurry, though,” the healer told his friends, expression pained but not in as much agony as before.

Suledin wasted no time trying to get Aether to his feet.

She couldn’t though.

She wasn’t strong enough to support him and it didn’t help that the sudden change of elevation made him black out almost as soon as he was on his feet. Thankfully though, Dorian caught him before he fell, and the mage hauled him up into his arms, cradling him close.

“We have to go back the way we came,” the Iron Bull said, “Suledin, lead the way,” he urged.

And so she led, feeling hot, angry tears full of fear that stung her eyes and burned down her cheeks, as fast as her feet could carry her.

As fast as their feet could follow.

Because every moment counted.

Because it was Aether’s life on the line.

* * *

Awareness came slowly, like walking through a fog so dense that you couldn’t see farther than your own arm, let alone your own feet and watching it lazily clear as the day grew warmer.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Warmth, not all over, but he could feel it. Soft and comforting. Light. On one side of his face.

And then color.

Red, like the inside of his eyelids.

And then Aether became aware of _pain_.

It was not the same pain he had last felt before… It wasn’t the agony of the Anchor’s last flare, so strong and so sharp that he could feel the Mark’s power radiating through his bones all the way up his shoulder, so severe that it was all he could do to reach for Solas’s hand when his friend told him to.

This was not that pain.

This was an ache.

This was the same feeling as rolling down a hill and hitting every rock and stone on the way down, like his entire body was just one massive bruise instead of so many small ones.

He recognized this pain.

It was the pain of getting his ass handed to him and still pushing forward like the dumb idiot he knew he was.

Aether shifted slowly, trying to ease some discomfort only for a slight hiss to escape his lips as another area of his body protested in the movement.

It sounded surprisingly loud, unlike the ones he knew were thoughts, echoing around inside the bone arena of his skull.

A real sound.

A real sound, to accompany real pain, to accompany real color, and real warmth.

Real.

Exhausted green eyes fluttered open only to immediately regret the action, wincing shut from the sudden brightness that drew yet another hiss from his lips and his body ached something fierce when he attempted to block the source. He managed though, and with the shadow of a lazy hand over his eyes, fingertips warm and yet cool at the same time against his skin, Aether tried again.

And reality settled in.

He was back in the Winter Palace, in one of the guest bedrooms. His own, most likely, with the softest blankets in Orlais lazily settled over him and plush pillows gathered at his back, comfortable but not when one has been still for so long, and he winced as he shifted yet again, trying to relieve the ache in his spine.

And Aether catalogued his memories.

He remembered the last time he was in this room, penning a hasty and anxious note to Vergil, refusing to die. He had been so nervous that when the crow landed at his window, he knocked over a vial of bathing oil and it had shattered on the ground. It had been one of the vials Vergil had given him, and the room still smelled like it, even though the mess had been cleaned up.

He remembered going back through the eluvian, with the keystone and the phrase to unlock the way to the Darvaarad, Dorian, Varric, and the Iron Bull at his side.

Suledin wouldn’t let him go without her.

Not after Leliana told her about the Anchor.

He wished she hadn’t.

But Suledin knew, and she wouldn’t back down, fierce as Aether’s own mother and just as stubborn too.

Corax would have liked Suledin as a granddaughter.

He felt a sick sense of nostalgia as he and the others slunk through Qunari territory, hording documents they discovered in case they proved useful and so many other things until the five of them discovered the bedrock of the Dragon’s Breath Conspiracy.

It was an actual dragon, without a breath-weapon but rather venom, like the wyverns.

Its venom was being used to produce Gaatlok, and Creators only knew how long the creature had been under the claim of the Qun, just as beautiful as the other High Dragons.

He didn’t kill her though.

He set her _free_.

And Ataashi did half the work that followed _for_ him.

She decimated the Qunari standing in their path before she took off towards her own freedom, proud and strong and despite the looming fear and pain that was searing up his arm, he felt excited.

And then, in chasing after the Viddasala, they learned the truth. Or at least part of the truth.

Solas, who had been absent since the defeat of Corypheus, was an agent of Fen’Harel, and the reason Corypheus got his hands on the orb in the first place. But of course, the real truth was far more complicated.

Solas was Fen’Harel.

Or rather, Fen’Harel was Solas. He had been Solas first, the title of the Dread Wolf came later, an insult that he wore with pride, much like Aether wore the title of the Cardinal. Solas had been the one to bring down the Veil, to trap the Evanuris who lorded themselves as gods, those false gods who branded the faces of other elves with vallaslin as slaves, those false gods who _killed_ Mythal, and then he fell into a deep slumber.

Only to discover that the world was worse off than before.

Aether admitted that he felt anger towards him, but one could suppose that it was mostly for being lied to. He was angry because what little the Dalish had left of their own culture had been woven into stories inaccurately, patchworks and bits and pieces that they stole back from the Tevinter Imperium when the humans had pushed them back underfoot and they struggled to thrive and survive and escape.

_So young and vibrant_, Mythal had told him when they had met, her expression almost soft, and motherly. _You do the people proud and have come far_.

And suddenly he understood, or at least he felt he understood better than he previously did.

Why Mythal had chosen a human as her host, why Solas held himself so proud over the Dalish when they had first met, why, why…

Why Solas was doing what he was.

And Aether couldn’t let him do that.

His friend smiled, something fond and sad, and told him that he looked forward to being proven wrong again.

Aether had already changed his mind once before. He could do it again.

But anything further that the healer had to say was cut off.

In the time of their conversation, the Anchor had built up charge and it was going off again.

“Give me your hand,” he heard Solas say above his own screams of agony.

Aether didn’t remember almost anything after that.

Just the last glimpse of Solas’s face, and then waking up here.

Safe.

In the Winter Palace.

How did he…

And then his eyes settled on his arm, or rather what was left of it.

Wrapped in pristine white gauze that smelled heavily of antiseptic balm, he could not feel anything from the shoulder down to the elbow, everything beyond that gone. Amputated. The damage too much to be saved, and what little he could see of his own skin looked like blackened vines creeping over his shoulder.

He could no longer smell rot and burnt flesh and _Creators_ everyone must have thought he smelled like plague.

Alive.

He was alive.

He wasn’t leaving anyone behind, not the people he was responsible for, not the people he looked out for, not his friends, not his family, he wasn’t leaving anyone behind.

He wasn’t leaving _Vergil_ behind.

Vergil.

His lover’s name caught in his throat and panic rose.

How long had it been since he sent that last note?

_Void_, he didn’t even know how much time had passed while they were dealing with the mess in the Darvaarad!

What if he-

Then his eyes settled on a dark shape, curled up in the plush chair at his bedside.

And the anxiety stilled itself.

“Vergil?” Aether said softly, carefully rolling onto his side so he could lean towards him. “Vergil?”

His voice gently roused the Warden Commander, exhaustion evident on his features as much as the disorientation of being woken was, all before those amber eyes settled on him in a daze.

Aether couldn’t hide his own smile at the view.

“Hey, sleepyhead…”

He felt almost a little embarrassed over his own voice, croaking to his beloved his first words in the weeks since they last saw each other. But all it really meant was that he had been out for a while.

Vergil carefully uncurled himself from his chair after a long moment and Aether almost missed his quiet ‘don’t move too much’ as the other man padded over to the bedside table to get some water and as the healer watched, he slowly sat up properly, taking the cup when it was offered and he took a small sip.

“How are you feeling?” Vergil asked tentatively.

“Sore,” he answered, “but alive.”

And he drained the cup, letting Vergil quietly take it.

“More?”

“No thank you. Did you get my last note?”

Something changed in Vergil’s expression, something… odd for the man. And he slowly sat down beside the wounded Inquisitor, his hands reaching up and cupping his jaw lightly as Vergil leaned in and pressed his lips to his forehead.

“Don’t do this again.”

He felt the words against his skin.

And Aether reached up, curling his fingers in Vergil’s hair, marveling at the feel. Savoring it as he made Vergil look at him.

“I told you I’m not leaving you,” the Nevarran whispered like a secret, “I intend to make good on that promise.”

* * *

Eventually, Aether and Vergil’s quiet time together came to an end when Suledin came to check on him, discovering the Vergil practically draped over Aether, hugging each other tightly, tan fingers curled in long black hair and Vergil’s face hidden against the crook of his neck.

Vergil was reluctant to let go of his lover but for Suledin he did, especially when she tearfully started yelling at Aether over how reckless he had been, leaving the healer almost grinning with pride despite the fact that she was scolding him badly enough that his ears went red, proud that she had picked up something from him. And while the surrogate daughter expressed her anger and her worry, pulling on Aether’s cheeks like some mean sibling, Vergil went to notify the healer, although a bit delayed.

The two of them just needed time to each other.

Suledin’s pale face was flushed red by the time the Warden returned with the healer, but she looked like she felt better.

A little less so when the healer took off the bandages to check the progress of the wound. She even used a mirror to show Aether the stitches at his request, and with careful fingers he felt along the wound, tracing the vine-like burns in his skin that were starting to scab over, all before he allowed her to reapply the numbing antiseptic salve and wrap it in new bandages.

The skin along the amputation was still slightly blackened but that would flake off and disappear with time, likely leaving him with a mass of pale scars.

As the healer secured the bandages in place, Aether looked over to Vergil.

“I need some help getting dressed,” he started. “There’s something I need to do and I don’t want to be later than I already am.”

“_Now_?” Suledin asked, her voice almost demanding and confused. “You’ve barely been awake for an hour!”

“You can barely stand straight,” Vergil stated through gritted teeth, “tell someone who was there with you to send the news.”

Aether shot both of them a look and huffed, “it’s my _job_ as Inquisitor to do this myself,” he stated, “besides, it will take all of five minutes tops, I promise.”

His lover and his surrogate daughter glanced at each other, Suledin just as annoyed as before and microexpressions warring under Vergil’s careful mask that he wore in front of the healer.

And then the Commander relented with a sigh.

“Take one of your companions then.”

Aether smiled, “I was actually hoping you’d come with me.”

The request almost surprised Vergil but then he saw the smug expression and he huffed in amusement. “Are you sure you want to be seen as potentially ‘influenced by Ferelden Wardens’ before Orlesians?”

“I don’t give a damn what they think.”

And he proved it too, after the healer left and Vergil helped him dress, leaning on his lover as he staggered down the hall, slowly becoming increasingly steady on his feet the longer he walked, and he saw the looks in the eyes of the Orlesians they passed and he did not care.

They were nearly to the meeting chamber, Josephine’s voice quiet through the door when Aether stopped and turned to Suledin, holding out his hand to her for the writ from the previous Divine, and she willingly gave it up.

Then he looked to Vergil.

And smiled.

Vergil smiled back.

“There’s some beauty in rage of figures in power being disappointed,” the Warden Commander stated.

Aether chuckled.

“You won’t be disappointed.”

Aether had done his job.

He, and Cassandra, and Leliana rebuilt the Inquisition of Old. They had found those who would stand against the chaos, they had closed the Breach, they had found those responsible, and they had restored order, with or without anyone’s approval.

The Inquisition had grown too large to do its job though.

They didn’t have the luxury for complacency.

And with the Divine’s Directive in hand, Aetherius Lavellan né Alerion went to crash his own party, with the two most important people in his life following after.


End file.
